


Dear Christopher

by laine_donnelly



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: American Civil War, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic Description of Injuries, Hurt No Comfort, No beta we post like men, graphic description of scent, gratitutious use of nicknames, hopefully i got their personalities at least somewhat right, it's waggle time ladies and theydies, special appearances by random players, writing letters to your bro but like...romantically, yeah it's...it's gonna be sad im sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23974495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laine_donnelly/pseuds/laine_donnelly
Summary: "Dearest SarahI'm compelled to write with aching fearful handsJust in case I never make it back"
Relationships: Charlie Coyle/Chris Wagner
Kudos: 4





	1. The Receival

**Author's Note:**

> hello peeps this is my very first hockey rpf fic! the inspiration for this (the letter format) was re-reading the My Name Is America series.   
> the title comes from the Goodnight, Texas song 'Dear Sarah'. 
> 
> also i made an accompanying playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0pZiyQWu0XOaZbvUCjBGml?si=QNJ6dGOfQ1qblu8F_YEdBw

“Christopher?” A woman’s voice called from the back door. The man on his knees in the garden stood up at hearing his name and brushed the dirt off his pants. Walking towards the door, he took a rag out of his pocket and wiped the sweat off of his face with it. The woman stood hovering in the doorway, holding a cup of water for the young man. “Here,” she said, holding it out towards him.

Christopher took it, ducking his head in a polite nod. “Thank you, Ms. Coyle,” he said, taking a drink from it.

The woman, his friend Charlie’s younger sister, laughed and beckoned him inside. “Chris, please. You’ve known me long enough to call me Jill. ‘Mrs. Coyle’ is my mother,” she said.

Chris blinked. “Sorry, habit.”

Jill smiled. “That’s all right, Chris.” She turned to where he had been out in the garden, weeding. “I think you’ve done enough for today. Thank you.”

Chris smiled back and nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Jill nodded at him and wandered back inside, puttering around in the kitchen and getting the rest of dinner ready. Chris stood on the back steps for a few more minutes, taking a drink from his cup and looking out at the setting summer sun before he went into the house.

As Chris and the Coyle family sat down to eat the meal Jill and her mother had been preparing, a knock was heard on the front door. Jill and her parents all glanced at each other confused, as the Coyle’s hadn’t been expecting anyone, let alone this late in the afternoon. Mr. Coyle sighed in annoyance and moved to get up, but Chris stopped him.

“I’ll get it,” he said, “You guys eat,” and made his way to their front door. As he neared it, his heart pounded. ‘ _What if it’s Charlie?_ ’ he thought as he opened it. He had a smile on his face but that soon dropped as he saw what, or rather who, was on the other side of the door.

A man dressed in Union blue stood on the doorstep, the last rays of sunlight glinting off his uniform’s buttons. He had a grim expression on his face as he took his hat off and tucked it under his arm, sandy-colored hair plastered to his forehead. The man was young, perhaps a few years younger than Chris. “Is this the Coyle residence?” he asked.

Chris nodded. “Yes sir.”

The man furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “I wasn’t aware Charlie had a brother.”

“He doesn’t. I’m his friend. I moved in to help his family with chores.”

The man frowned. “I see. Well is anyone from the Coyle family present?”

Just then, Mr. Coyle stepped up from behind Chris. Apparently he had heard the beginning of the conversation and had come over to speak to the man.

“I’m Mr. Coyle, the head of this household. And you are?”

“Staff Sergeant Frederick Nichols,” said the man. “I served with your son.” He handed Mr. Coyle an envelope. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

As Nichols said those words, Chris felt like all the air had been forcibly pulled out of his lungs.

Nichols handed a small stack of envelopes tied with twine to Mr. Coyle as well. “Charlie wanted me to give these to a C. Wagner, but I was unable to find her address.”

Chris felt his face pale at that as Mr. Coyle took the stack of letters from Nichols’s hands and handed them to Chris who nervously watched Mr. Coyle’s expression, waiting for him to react in anger somehow. But he never did. Chris’s hands shook as he took the small stack from Mr. Coyle and put it in his pocket. Chris could read them later, in private and let his emotions out.

“He was a good man,” said Nichols. “I’m so very sorry.” With that, he gave the two men a sad smile and turned and walked down the dirt walkway.

“He was,” Chris mumbled dumbly as Mr. Coyle closed the front door.

“Dear?” came the voice of Mrs. Coyle, who had come to see what the commotion at the door was about. “Who was that?” Behind her hovered Jill, concern and worry evident in her eyes.

Mr. Coyle turned to his wife and daughter with tears in his eyes. “It-it’s Charlie,” he said, choking on his son’s name. “He’s dead.” Mrs. Coyle brought her hands to her mouth in shock as she choked back a sob with Jill following suit. Mr. Coyle fell to his knees, gathering his wife and daughter into his arms. Chris stood off to the left, letting the family grieve while silently wiping tears from his own face.

When Mr. Coyle had fallen to his knees, he had dropped the notice so Chris picked it up to read it.

**_Near Centerville Va._ **

**_September 3rd 1862_ **

****

**_To Mr. and Mrs. Charles Coyle_ **

****

**_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Coyle_ **

**_It is with my deepest condolences that I announce your son, Charles Robert Coyle, was killed in action on the 30th of August. He lay for nearly a day until Death brought him peace and ended his great suffering. Pvt. Coyle was an outstanding soldier and loved throughout the company and our regiment. Our regiment, upon his death, loses the services of a man whose place it will be difficult to fill. In his passing, this tribute to his memory I but re-echo the sentiments of the entire command. I sincerely sympathize with you in the irreparable loss you have sustained, whereby you have lost but a kind, brave, and gentle son. May his soul rest in eternal peace._ **

**_Our Lieutenant whose name is Michael N. Wilson is in your city detailed to bring on conscripts. I think you will find him at the Bickman House or somewhere in that vicinity. Lt. Wilson can give you more information than I have the ability to on paper._ **

**_Your son was on the front line when a bullet pierced his side, downing him instantly. The men dragged him back out of the line of fire and there he lay speaking fondly of his loved ones back in Massachusetts until he passed. Wishing your sorrows may be alleviated by the consolation of knowing he died a glorious death._ **

****

**_I remain,_ **

**_Your Obedient Servant,_**

 ******** **_Sgt. Fred. J. W. Nichols_ **

**_Sgt. Frederick Nichols Co ‘E’_ **

**_18th Mass. Vol. Infantry 1st Brigade 1st Division_**

Chris’s eyes welled up with tears again as he read the letter. ‘ _Charlie really is dead_ …‘ He thought. Choking back a sob as it tried to escape his throat, he mumbled an excuse to the grieving family and fled out the door to his own home.

 ********


	2. May 27, 1862

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the mayor-ining

Trembling with nerves as he reached his front door, he wrenched it open and stormed to his room, stopping by the kitchen table to grab a knife to open the letters with. Plopping down onto his bed, he thought about Charlie lying alone on the battlefield, writhing in pain and crying out for his mother. Chris wasn’t dumb, he had heard stories from those that had been wounded and returned home of the horrors that occurred on the battlefield.

Remembering the stack of letters Charlie’s father had given him, he reached into his shirt with shaking hands and pulled them out, untying the twine that held them together. Smiling tearfully at Charlie’s messy handwriting, he used the pocketknife Charlie had given to him on his twenty-first birthday and opened the first letter.

_May 27, 1862_

_Manassas, Virginia_

_C,_

_There is only so much I can tell you about the things I have done and seen. Today was something I never thought I would have to do. We arrived late to where we were supposed to meet the rest of the Brigade and were thus unable to fight. We ended up assisting the First Division in burying the dead, however._

_There were bodies everywhere, dotting the landscape. Some lay mortally wounded with no chance of survival, while others had clearly been there for quite some time. The grass and mud under our boots were red with blood and squelched unpleasantly when we walked. There were flies everywhere, buzzing around our heads like demonic haloes. And the smell. Oh God, the smell. It is the worst thing I think I have ever experienced. It stank like rotting flesh and old blood. The stench seemed to follow us wherever we went in the field. Some of the boys were near sick while burying the dead._

_Captain Marshall instructed us to dig big pits for the bodies to be buried in but I could swear that some of the bodies were still breathing as we tossed them into the mass grave. Someone later said that they heard the groans from some of the bodies, though whether they were just the noises dead bodies make or groans of pain from injured men, I do not know. I believe that will haunt me until my dying day, knowing I may have inadvertently buried men alive._

****

_* * *_

_27 May 1862_

_Manassas, Virginia_

_Night_

_Night time in Virginia is something else. The moon above our camp is so bright, we hardly need a lantern to see, though nothing compares to the night sky back home when the moon rises over the ocean._

_The only complaint I have is that the bugs here are awful. Devil’s spawn, the boys call them. The mosquitoes and gnats buzz ‘round our heads nonstop and we are all covered in bumps from being bitten. Some of the boys, the ones that are used to things like this, have taken to putting mud on the exposed parts of their bodies to keep the damned bugs from biting. I’m not entirely convinced it works._

_I remember Ma saying she was worried I wouldn’t get along with the rest of the regiment, which was a strange thing to be worried about when your son is off to war. I suspect that she possibly knew but I never asked her about it._

_There are a few soldiers I have become close with; Jimmy Milton, Fred Nichols, and Tommy DeMarco. Jimmy and Fred are local boys, one being from Bellingham and the other is from Wellesley. Tommy is from Detroit._

_They give me trouble for writing all the time but it is all in good spirit. They’ve even come up with a nickname for me; they call me “the Mayor”, though why, I am not sure._

_Tell my family I am doing fine. I miss them. I miss you._

_Yours,_

_Charlie_

Chris laughed at what Charlie had said about the men using mud to combat the mosquitoes and how he was sure it wouldn’t work. But that was Charlie, ever the skeptic about things like that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no tommy is not based on t*ny d*angelo. i just made the name up. same as freddy nichols and jimmy milton - they are not based on real people.


	3. May 29, 1862

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks at photo of mcquaid i have taped to my wall* oh, adam, we're really in it now.

Chris opened the second letter, hissing when he accidentally caught his thumb with the edge of the knife. Popping it into his mouth to soothe the sting, he read.

_May 29, 1862_

_Afternoon_

_Virginia_

_C,_

_We have finally returned back to camp after days of fighting. I am not quite sure how long we will be here, but I do hope it is not long. Everyone is getting restless and I cannot count the number of times I have played cards with Jimmy, Fred, and Tommy. Of course, I lost every time but then again I never was good at having a poker face, though you know that from experience._

_It is still muggy, the sun beaming hotly down on our camp. Our uniforms stick to us like a second skin and I have considered jumping into the small creek that runs through our camp but I am sure that, while it may temporarily soothe the heat, it will not last._

_The scent of unwashed men and stale sweat combined with the odor coming from the medical tent and cooking food is not a pleasant one. I do not think I will ever eat beans again. The coffee they’ve given us is terrible; in fact I am not even sure it is worthy of being called ‘coffee’. It is more like a sludge that one would find floating on a pond. A few of the boys caught some rabbits for dinner so I suppose they intend to make soup with them._

* * *

_May 29_

_Night_

_There’s no moon tonight so I have to use a lantern to write by. The sky is dark, with only the dim specks of the stars offering their dim light. There’s the occasional flicker of light from small campfires or a dim lantern dotted about the camp but nothing bright enough to offer proper lighting to write by._

_Someone’s brought out some sort of alcohol – Nichols called it ‘homebrew’- and is passing it around. I never was one for alcohol, but tonight I thought I would try it. A terrible mistake. It smelled like gasoline and tasted worse. It burned my throat going down so much that I nearly got sick on my boots. Nichols and DeMarco had a good laugh at my expense while I was making faces at the taste. I know you would have joined in, C, but I know that it would not have been with any sort of malice._

_Some of the men, namely those from the First Brigade, are from Michigan, and the one who brought out the alcohol; Shorty, everyone calls him, is fast becoming a close friend. The Brigade’s captain is young, and I worry that he is not as experienced in warfare as much as our Captain Nelson.. Then again, most of us are young, with the youngest being fourteen.. Fourteen years old. A boy who should be in school, not out here on a battlefield. It breaks my heart that he is out here, fighting with us, and is prepared to lose his life should it happen. As Capt. Nelson’s runner, however, I do believe that he is safer there than with the rest of the fighting men. He is like a little brother to us all and I do pray that nothing happens to him._

_Speaking of Captain Nelson, he has told us that we are to remain camped here until June so I suppose unless something meaningful happens, there will not be much to write home about._

_Yours,_

_Charlie_

Chris wondered what could have happened in the time between this letter and the next one, and with bated breath opened the next letter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ｡*ﾟ.*.｡(っ ᐛ )っ🌟 here is a gold star if you figured out who "shorty" and the brigade captain are
> 
> ok so some background (as im sure you're wondering why Michigan is even mentioned): our favorite mayor is a member of the 18th Regiment Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry which included Bristol, Norfolk, and Plymouth counties and had a 3 year enlistment period. The 18th MAVI belonged to a brigade that was strengthened by the addition of the First Michigan Regiment - which was known as the First Brigade, First Division.


	4. June 26, 1862

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's gucci, waggle fans? yeah so like i said, this is all gonna go downhill so just be ready. also, i made Quaider a chaplain after i discovered that he and some of the other bruins (and danton and backes [rip]) have their own little bruins bible study club.

_June 26, 1862_

_Virginia_

_It has been a while since I had the chance to sit down and write. We’ve been mobile for quite a while and in the midst of fighting, I was unable to find my journal and for a while, I was worried I had lost it in our maneuvering but I eventually found it at the bottom of my knapsack._

_The fighting has gotten worse here. I do not know what the papers back home have been saying, but I can assure you that what I have experienced is far worse than what they are reporting._

_I have witnessed more horrifying things than I would have thought I would ever experience. I would write them here but I do not want to scare you, though I am sure you can imagine what I mean. I would not wish for anyone to go to war._

_We have lost a few men in the meantime. A boy named Milton, the fourteen-year-old soldier I previously referred to, was killed in action in early June. His death was agonizing; a cannonball to his stomach. It left a hole so wide I could stick my hand through. I was nearest to him when he was hit and heard the sounds he made as he died; a horrific gurgling as blood poured from his mouth and stained his lips and the front of his uniform. He died shortly afterwards. Our chaplain, a man from Canada named Father McQuaid, had us pray for his soul that night. We did not have time to bury the boy, so we had to leave him amongst the dead on the battlefield. I have not been able to sleep since. Every time I close my eyes, all I see are his brown eyes, wide with pain and fear, one small hand clutching the message that ultimately got him killed, the other reaching out for his brethren, for someone to help him. Sometimes I wake to find him standing over me, with empty holes where his eyes should be, a black gaping mouth, and his left arm reaching towards me. His mouth moves but I cannot make out the words he speaks. I am afraid to tell the other men, for they may think I am not well. But I know what I have seen, and I know that I am sane._

_We detached from the First Division, along with the 17th New York sometime this morning. The New York men are friendly enough, but most of the men in my company seem to have some sort of grudge against them. DeMarco seems to think that someone from the 17th seems to have it out for him - he claims that someone from there stole his canteen and knife, though I believe that he merely misplaced it, as he is wont to do._

_We have been stationed in another part of Virginia where our orders are to protect supplies for the Army. Our proximity to Confederate territory has some of us, including myself, somewhat nervous, since there is no way of telling if they would be able to spring a surprise attack on us without our knowledge. Captain Nelson keeps us busy, however, so we are not too restless and start trouble in the town. He has instructed us to destroy stores, “so them damn Rebs don’t get a head start”. While we are doing so for the protection of much needed supplies for the Army, destroying people’s livelihoods like we are. I brought this up to Nichols, who only laughed and said that I was being too soft-hearted. I do not believe I was._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from here on out, the chapters will just be the letters, no more of chris reading them so just fyi.  
> updates will be sporadic. 
> 
> me? torturing my fave characters/people with hallucinations of their guilt? more likely than you think. (sorry charlie)

**Author's Note:**

> hello there!   
> a lot of research went into this and was then subsequently thrown out the window for the sake of artistic liberty. you will notice that it starts at the end and goes backwards, which is purposeful for how i wanted this to be.


End file.
